"The Archivists" is a short story by Daphne Kalotay from the latest issue of Consequence, an international literary magazine that focuses on the culture and consequences of war. Daphne Kalotay is the author Russian Winter, Sight Reading, and Calamity and Other Stories.

Michigan, March 12th. At the teak desk in her living room, the grandmother writes to her granddaughter:

My Darling!

Thank you for the flowers! The petals are the exact color blue. I will have Sable take a picture. For dinner we are having roast duck. Also soup, potatoes, asparagus, and the chocolate cake. Don’t worry, we have twoducks!

Love, Bunica

Article continues after advertisement

The flowers, blue hydrangeas, are a gift for her birthday. Big, plump periwinkle clusters, like outrageous pompoms. The vase arrived with a shiny pink ribbon tied round in a bow, but the grandmother found it inelegant and removed it.

Havingcompletedherletter,thegrandmotherrisesfromher desk. With the aid of a cane fashioned after a stalk of bamboo, she makes her way to the narrow, fluorescent-lit kitchen, where Lea is arrangingtheduckssidebysideonthebroilerpan.Noheadsorfeet, just the cold plump bodies, firm and slick. The grandmother stands at the kitchen doorway to watch her daughter truss the stubby legs withtwine.Shelikestomakecertaineverythingispreparedtheright way.

*

Inanunder-heateddancestudioinNewYorkCity,aretired ballerina stretches her leg from passé into développé. Over herthin leotardshewearsloosesweatpantsandalittlebolero-styleknitsweater tied in a knot at her breastbone. “Not quite so high,” she explains, herlegfullyoutstretched,toespointingattheairintheirtightleather slippers.Itfeelsgood,thestrongreachofherleg,thearchofherfoot, muscles extended in a single, focusedintention.

Article continues after advertisement

The young star she is coaching, a dancer with her hair in a high blonde ponytail, repeats the movement. Too eager. Her effort is visible, beads of sweat crowning her forehead, her leg jabbing the air rather than piercing it. The combination she is learning—choreographed a quarter century before her birth and intensely difficult—has not been danced in three decades.

Theretiredballerina’snameisBrynn.Sheissixty-eightyears old and works in Houston as a consultant to the Ballet. Off to NYC, andintodistantmemory,shewrotelastnighttoregisteredfansonher blog, while waiting for her flight to NewYork.

She has promised her doctor to do nothing that will in any way strain her bad knee.

Lea says, “Let me get those,” and lifts the styrofoam trays, ferries them to the sink, rinses the cold, slick turkey parts underthe faucet. In the stock pot, wedges of parsnip and carrot sizzle against sweating layers of a quartered onion. With a wooden spoon, the grandmothernudgesthevegetablestotheedgesofthepot,tomake room for the turkey parts. Lea drops the neck and wings in andlets themsplutterforabit,thencoverseverythingwithwaterandsetsthe lidpartiallyacrosstop.Thegrandmotherturnstheflamehigher.

*

In a laboratory a few miles northeast of Los Angeles, two researchassociatesarebeginningtheday’swork.It’s9:30AM.The studyisatanearlystage,datacollection,simple,repetitive.

The first subject to arrive is a twenty-seven-year-old girl. “Woman” the first researcher—also a woman—grumbles to her colleague,aman,whoseesnothingdemeaninginreferringtowomen asgirls.

“It’s infantilizing,” the female researcher explains.

Hercolleagueexplainsthathewouldneverusethewordgirl foranyonewhoisn’tactuallyyoung.Forwomentoooldtobegirls, he prefers the termladies.

Practicing the deep, full breaths she has been advised to engage in such moments, the female researcher heads down the hallway to the room where she will collect the girl’s data. Before entering, she taps a quip into her smartphone, about men who call womengirls.AsmuchasherTwitteraccountisadiversion,itisalso a record of her daily thoughts, activities and news. To not record something would mean, she believes, to loseit.

*

Thesolotheyoungblondestaristolearnwaschoreographed in 1969, in protest against the Vietnam War. All wars, the choreographerlaterclarified,andtoldofhismother’sbelovedblue-eyed brother, who died in a laborcamp.

The dance, “Forced March,” was first performed on a swelteringJulyeveningattheJacob’sPillowFestivalinMassachusetts. IntheTimesthenextday,acriticwroteofBrynn’s“dignifiedcarriage giving way to fury and heartbreak” and of the way she “seemed to radiate perseverance in the face of infinitepain.”

Photographs from that date show a young, round-cheeked Brynn in a black leotard with a thin white belt at her waist, the expression on her unlined face resolute. Though brief, the dance required prodigious strength; by the end, the floor of the stage was wet from her perspiration. For the entire fourteen minutes that she was dancing, she was worried her pancake makeup would run.

From that night forward, each time she performed it, she told herself it was her very last dance. She felt it her duty to useup everything she had, sweat pasting her leotard to her skin, veins pulsing,bruisesemergingonherkneeswhereshesometimesfelltoo hard. Just a limp wet rag, that was how she felt by the end. It was a wonderfully satisfyingfeeling.

“I looked online,” says the young star. They are taking a break, drinking water from big plastic bottles emblazoned with the company’slogo.“Iguessit’struenooneeverfilmedit.Iwonderwhy. I found lots of recordings of you, but none of thisone.”

“As much as her Twitter account is a diversion, it is also a record of her daily thoughts, activities and news. To not record something would mean, she believes, to lose it.”

The grandmother’s other guests have begun to arrive. First herson,Benjie,andnowhergrandsonDave,his6-month-oldbaby, and his wife, Sable, thevegetarian.

Everyoneiscooingatthebaby—anobliviouscreaturepacked into a car basket. Dave and Sable used to live on the east coast but withthebabymovedbacktoMichigantobeclosertofamily.Asthe grandmother is embraced by Sable, her cheeks soft and cool, Dave sets down the manifold bags that accompany the baby on even the shortest oftravels.

Theresearchassociatesarecollectingdataconcerningagene connected to the regulation of stresshormones.

That is all they have been told. They do not yet know that theirsubjectshavecometothisstudyviaarchivesbeguntwentyyears ago. They do not know that the archives, founded by a famousfilm director, are video testimonies recorded for an institute nowlocated hereattheuniversity.Thetestimoniesdescribestarvation,brutality, and death. They speak of life in ghettos, in hiding, in camps. In forests, in alleys, on therun.

Instead of archived videos, the laboratory researchers read swabs of DNA. The institute began collecting samples in an effort toreconnectdispersedfamiliesandidentifybodilyremains.Butthe researchershavebeenemployingthesamplestowardadifferentend: an ongoing study of intergenerational effects of extreme trauma. Specifically,thatthestressesoftheHolocausthavealteredtheDNA notonlyofHolocaustvictimsbutalsooftheirdescendants.

“Epigenetic inheritance” is the term. Environmentally-causedmodificationsofgeneticmaterial,viachemicaltagsthatattach themselvestoDNA.Inpreviousstudies,JewishHolocaustsurvivors and their offspring were proven to share the same epigenetic tags, while the control group (Jewish families living outside of Europe during the war) didnot.

This new study will test the theory that epigenetic tags are passed not only to children but to grandchildren.

*

Theblueofthesecondhydrangea—theonefromherson—is very close to that of the first but slightly more violet. The petals, brightandabsurdlyhealthy,couldbeleavesfromsomeoversizedblue clover, or the wings of a strange bluebutterfly.

The grandmother has her son set the planter on the teak desk.Meanwhile,atoptheroundglasscoffeetable,thebouquetfrom her granddaughter in California makes a sort of altered reflection, periwinkleblossomsspillingluxuriouslyoverthelipofthevase.

The plant from her son has a small white tag dangling over theedgeoftheceramicpot:Hydrangeawritteninloopingscript.The grandmother leans closer to read thetag.

She looks over to the coffee table, at the vase burstingwith hydrangeablossoms.Thoseperiwinkleones,fromhergranddaughter, are the rightones.

*

Brynn massages the area around her bad knee. So far, so good.Shejustneedstoremembertoiceitwhenshegetsbacktothe hotel.

Forafewyears,the“ForcedMarch”solowashersignature piece, created for her when she was not yet twenty. Danced for the first minutes in silence, with live drumming gradually layered in, the piece begins slowly, meditatively, building to a frenzy andthen ultimatelycalmingitself.Amongthephotographsonherwebsiteis oneofayoung,fearlessBrynnhurtlingherselfacrossthestagewhile a stern-faced drummer plays impassively behindher.

It was flattering, an honor, to have a dance made for her, evenifshehadalsobeenfendingoffthechoreographer’sadvancesfor sometime.AftersheleftthecompanyforatroupeinSanFrancisco, thedancewasretiredfromtherepertoireandneverperformedagain. Whenthechoreographerdied,afewyearsago,Brynnspokelovingly, if with carefully chosen words, at hismemorial.

Her work with this new star is part of a project to archive “lost”dances.ItbeganasanInternetcampaignandhassincereceived national attention. Brynn finds the online platform—GoFundMe— crass.Itseemsthesedaysanyonecanaskformoneyforanythingand, astonishingly, receiveit.

Once revived, Brynn’s piece will be publicly performed, recorded,andaddedtoanelectronicarchive.Danceslongforgotten, the GoFundMe page explained, will exist once again, recalled, performed, and shared into perpetuity.

“In the kitchen, the two ducks are roasting, grease dripping into the pan. The salad has been assembled but not dressed. The potatoes await mashing, and the asparagus still needs to be sautéed.”

“Iwillexplain,”thegrandmothertellsSable,whohasnotyet heard the story. Leaning closer on the sofa, she tells her about her first love, whom she last saw in1939.

Mihail,brotherofherfriendAna.Hehadthemostbeautiful eyes! But it was not until she was sixteen, she tells Sable, that he finallytooknoticeofher.Ithappenedatadance.Therewereweekend dancesbackthen,everyonewouldgo.Afavoritesonghadstartedup, andoutofasenseofduty—itseemed—Mihailaskedhertojoinhim. Moving together, their bodies warm and full of life, she glimpseda change in his face, some new softness, or perhaps simplyattention. He was, she realized, seeing her anew. After that, he was always walkingherhome,lopingalongbesideher,carryingherbooks,and, inthedarkofthecinema,warmingherhandsinhis,tremblingwhen he dared lean in to kissher.

On the run, hiding in safe houses, in abandoned homes, miserable places she has blocked from memory. Entire weeks, months, erased from mental record.

EvenwhenshegavehertestimonytotheInstitute,shefound shecouldnotaccountforgreatswathsoftime.Thattroubledher.It made it seem those painful stretches neverexisted.

ShetellsSablesomeofwhatsheremembers—faraway,now, perhaps, from what she meant to explain. There was a courtyard where she found herself alone, a searing hunger in her stomach, no strength left. No last surge of energy to move forward, to make a decision, to save her own life by shoving one raw inflamed foot in front of theother.

Looking at the rusted gate to the courtyard, thinking that if she looked long enough, her father would appear and tell her what to do.

In the kitchen, the two ducks are roasting, grease dripping into the pan. The salad has been assembled but not dressed. The potatoesawaitmashing,andtheasparagusstillneedstobesautéed. ForSablethereisalsoalentilburgerslowlyshrivelinginthetoaster oven.

Lea adds a ladle of broth to a small saucepot of simmering water. Next comes a dusting of her mother’s signature ingredient, which the grandmother considers a spice though really it is MSG. Lea cracks an egg into a bowl, shakes some salt at it, and briskly scramblestheeggwithafork.Shesiftsatablespoonoffarinaintothe bowlandstirs.Toorunny.Sheaddsmorefarina,stirsagain.Thetrick is not to add too much, or the dumplings won’t holdtogether.

Whenthemixturelooksaboutright—astickyyellowpaste— Lea lightly drags the tines of the fork across the top. The indented lines remain briefly visible, then start to fillin.

The motion of another hand, of another girl, in a drafty kitchen in Brașov. Young Ana, sister of Mihail, showing her friend how to test the găluşcă: “Just pull the fork through, until it leaves a mark, like this.”

*

“Likethis,”Brynntellstheyoungdancer.Shelowersherself intoawideplié—slowly,carefulwithherknee—whileherarmspush aboveherhead,palmsflatandwide,asiftryingtopushawaythesky. Fascia stretching, ligaments tightening. “Musclememory”—though for Brynn the emotions, too, return, how it felt to be young, knowing her choreographer was in love with her, and that she did notneedtolovehimback,thatitwasenoughtodanceforhim,tobe beautiful and follow his direction with herbody.

Wecouldnotrisklookingasifweweregoingonajourney,the survivor says on the videotape from 1996. That is why I have no photographsorfamilykeepsakes.Wehadtoleaveeverythingbehind.

For the Institute, that same survivor left behind a buccal swab of her DNA. Which is how, nearly two decades later, subject 1207B—the“girl”—cametobeaskedtoparticipateinthestudyhere at the university, and why she has stopped by this air-conditioned room, missing her morning tae kwon do class, to answer a detailed questionnaireandopenherhealthy,strong-jawedmouthwideforthe research associate, who leans forward and rubs a sterile swab inside the girl’s cheek.

*

“So you see, I have no pictures of him,” the grandmother explainstoSable,nudgingherselftowardtheedgeofthesofatopose for her photo. “But to this day, I have never met anyone with such beautifuleyes.”

They have come to the most difficult section. Down onher knees, then leaping to the sky. Spinning and spinning andspinning, into the indifferent, expandinguniverse.

“Leadwiththehipfirst,yes,but,no....”Frustrating,these failed attempts to describe things her body can no longer oblige. Shapes she can no longer make, compromised gestures carving the air. What she wants to explain is beyondlanguage.

So she stops, just briefly, to think. She is deciding what to do. Then she begins, again, to move.

*

InPaloAlto,thefirstoftheday’ssubjectshasbeensetfree. Ifshehurriesshemightmakethenexttaekwondoclass.Ormaybe she should skip class and study for her Latinexam.

As soon as she has left the lab, she checks her cellphone, where she finds a text from her sister-in-law. With a photograph.

ilovethis!shetapsback.Justseeingitmakeshersmile.With a quick push of a button, she displays it on her Instagram account. Mybunica,shetypes,91yearsoldtoday!

By evening, two hundred and ninety people will have seen the photograph of her grandmother with the periwinkle bouquet. Ninety-seven of them will have “liked” the exact color of Mihail’s eyes.

*

Knee popped, Brynn writes to the fans on her blog. She is typingonheriPadinhercasual,pokeyway,sittinginafirm-cushioned chair in her doctor’s waiting room, her bad leg fully, painfully, outstretched. The flight home was tricky, with her leg sticking out intotheaisle,annoyingeveryone.Nottomentionthelongawkward car ride home, and the depressing drive here today, propped like an invalidinthebackseatofherfriend’ssedan,andthenhavingtouse the cane again, like some oldlady.

She thinks for a moment, then resumes her typing. And yes my dears, it was worth it.